Enslaved by Kings and Dragons
by lemonconfessions
Summary: The Reader finds herself prisoner to Thranduil, who offers freedom from Smaug in the form of servitude of a very different sort. Little does the Elven king know that the woman he brings to his bed is in Mirkwood for a much darker purpose, one that threatens to destroy all he holds dear. Originally posted at LemonConfessions [dot] Tumblr [dot] com
1. Chapter 1- Enslaved by a King

"Lost traveler, you say."

The king of Mirkwood smiles kindly down at you, but his gaze is ice. The guard hands him your knapsack, and your heart sinks. You had tried so hard to hide it from the guards before they cornered you deep in the forest. He casually loosens the drawstrings, and scatter the contents of your bag onto the stone floor. Emeralds, rubies, and diamonds clatter down the steps. You swallow hard.

"...I can explain-" The guards grab your arms and force you on your knees.

"You have quite the nerve, stealing from me." He reaches down and retrieves a glittering emerald. "Do you know what I do with thieves?"

"...Please," you murmur, your mouth dry with fear. "My master demanded them. I had no choice."

"Your master?" He strides from his throne and waves his guards away. He leans down to examine the golden collar around your neck. He flinches when he recognizes the symbols.

"...You serve a dragon?"

"Smaug, my lord. He took me as a child. I have been in his service ever since."

"He has all the treasures of Erebor. What does he want with a sack-full of gems?"

"...He is insatiable, my lord."

"And should you defy him?"

You shudder at his words. "The collar was forged in dragonfire. It will burn me alive, should he wish it."

Thranduil absentmindedly touches his cheek. Then he trails his fingers slowly down the side of your face. You shiver involuntarily at his touch. He looks at you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight.

"Such a shame. Such beauty to be wasted by the flame of a dragon." He draws away from you. "Your plight with the dragon is none of my concern. But crimes have to be punished, and you have stolen from me. More than once, I'd imagine."

Fear curdles your insides. "If I do not return by sundown, Smaug will ignite the collar."

He raised his eyebrows. "And should you return empty-handed?"

You bite your lip. You recall the way Smaug has been eyeing you as of late, as if you were a delectable morsel. You are certain he may eat you out of disappointment. Thranduil sees your expression and laughs darkly. He runs a finger along your collar, his touch barely grazing your skin.

"I can remove this collar."

Your eyes widen, and your heart skips a beat at his words. Your excitement is quickly replaced with fearful suspicion, as your realize the King of Mirkwood never gives anything away for free.

"...I have nothing to offer in return," you whisper.

"I would not say nothing."

His long fingers trail down your neck, resting lightly at the hollow of your throat. You are suddenly very aware of how sensitive you are under his touch.

"Pledge your service to me, and I will remove your collar."

His fingers caress your shoulders, down your arms. He sees the goosebumps on your flesh, and a dark smile creeps onto his lips.

"...I did not think my lord would have a need for a thief," you breathe.

"The lust for treasure is but one of many insatiable appetites. I will see to it that you satisfy mine."

Your face flushes hot. Fear and heat and excitement pound through your veins all at once.

"I-have never- I mean- I'm unskilled-" You splutter.

"It is to be expected of one raised by a dragon. There is much to learn. I am patient."

His words were both a threat and a promise. You lick your lips nervously.

"...For how long?"

"A year for every gem you stole from me."

Your heart races. There were more than a hundred gems in your knapsack. And he knows it.

Slowly, you nod.

He grins, the way a hunter grins when he has snared his prey. He steps behind you and pulls you against him, pressing you against his body. He is warm and firm, and you feel yourself melt in his embrace. Tilting your head to the side, he leans down and says something beautiful in elvish against the collar. There is a loud crack, and the collars snaps in half, clattering on the floor. He closes his palm around your neck, his lips a whisper away from your ear.

"You belong to me now," He breathes.

A delicious shiver runs through you. Secretly, you smile.


	2. Chapter 2- Jacuzzi

"Undress me."

Thranduil's voice is soft, but his command is not. You take away his empty wine glass, setting it aside in case he chooses to have more. You stand on your tiptoes and gingerly unclasp the brooch at his throat. It is beautiful, heavy and cold in your hand.  
Smaug would give a scale from his underbelly for such a treasure.  
But you no longer serve Smaug. The King of Mirkwood is your new master now, and he is eyeing you with cool impatience. Hastily, you put the brooch away and begin unbuttoning his tunic with nervous fingers.

You are used to polishing dragon scales, scrubbing burnt remains of the unfortunate from dragon teeth. You are not used to undressing kings. Especially one whose very presence makes your blood run hot. You can feel a flush on your cheeks as you ease the heavy brocade from his shoulders. He is chiseled flesh, with the shoulders of a warrior, the torso of a god.

"My boots. And trousers."

You lower your head in embarrassment. You were so busy admiring him you forgot what you were supposed to be doing. You kneel and help him out of his leather boots, placing them next to his tunic. You hesitate as you reach towards his belt. He looks down at you; you cannot tell from his expression whether he is annoyed or amused.

"My trousers," he repeats.

You swallow hard and slowly unfasten his belt. You avert your gaze as you slip his pants from his waist, gently moving it past muscular thighs and beautifully defined calves. Your heart is pounding like a drum in your ears. He steps down the smooth marble steps into the steaming pool. You quickly gather his discarded belongings and head towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You stop in your tracks. You swallow hard and turn back to face him. He is removing his rings, slowly sliding them off one by one from long, slender fingers. Your mouth is dry.

"There is a washcloth in the basket. Help me bathe."

You almost drop his clothes; you fold them the best you can, your hands shaking. Clutching the washcloth, you approach the bubbling pool. He is leaning against the marble, his head tilted back. His eyes are closed. You can tell he is tired, and that much weigh on his mind.

"Must I drag you in myself?" He mutters, his eyes still closed.

Your pale silk dress clings to your body like a second skin as you slip into the pool. You lather the silken washcloth with lavender-scented soap and glide it up his muscular arms, drawing it across his shoulders and then slowly down his chest. His skin gleams gold in the flickering torchlight. He opens his eyes and catches you staring at him. You quickly look away and focus intently on scrubbing his elbow. He dips his head into the gurgling pool and flicks his hair back.

The water has washed away the elven magic on his face. Where his cheek used to be is now charred, twisted flesh that exposes his teeth. He runs his fingers through his hair and leans back again against the marble. You tuck a wisp of damp hair behind his pointed ear as you begin to wash his face. He watches you from the corner of his eye.

"You do not flinch at the true face of your Master?"

"...I have served a dragon all my life. I am familiar with the ravage of dragonfire."

"You are familiar with the sight of ruined flesh?"

"...You must possess great strength and will to live, to survive such an injury."

He cups your cheek with a dripping hand. His touch is hot against your feverish skin. He runs his thumb along your lower lip, and you can't help but shiver.

"I have heard Smaug is fond of flattery," he murmurs. "Is that how you survived so long in his service?"

"Smaug is fond of jewels. I pleased him by giving him what he wanted..." Your voice trails off as his fingers run along your face and down your neck. His caress is slippery with soap, and you are suddenly aware of the translucence of your soaked dress.

"And how do you intend to please me?"

He slowly grazes the aching tips of your breasts with the back of his hand. Your breath catches in your throat, and you almost drop the washcloth.

"...My lord?" You whisper breathlessly.

"Look at me. Do not look away."

His hands wander freely now, caressing your throat, your breasts, his fingers toying and teasing through the drenched silk. His fingers dance across every curve and hollow of your sensitive body. You breath comes in shallow gasps. and his lips curl into a dark smile. He is enjoying your reactions to his touch. His hand wanders further down, sliding between your thighs. You utter a soft cry, and look at him with desire mingled with fear. He pulls you close.

"Do not close your eyes. I want to see your lust for me."

His hand slips beneath your undergarments. You whimper as he touches you, slowly and deliberately. With every delicate stroke, he stokes a fire within you that burns brighter and hotter. Your mouth is half open, the mewling coming from your throat unfamiliar to your ears. You look at him with eyes filled with longing, your tongue running along your lips in desperate invitation. He groans and closes his mouth over yours. He tastes of wine and honey. His tongue explores your eager mouth as his fingers explore your depths. He pushes you higher, and higher, until there is nothing in this world but the slick sweetness of his touch. Then suddenly you unravel, and all you see is stars. You buckle and shudder against him, your cries muffled in his embrace.

"You are a feisty one." His voice is thick. Dazed, you see that there are scratch marks all across his shoulders and chest. Scratches you left in the peaks of your pleasure.

Your mortified apologies are drowned by his kiss.

"Do not worry," he murmurs against your lips. "I intend to bind you when we get out of the bath."


	3. Chapter 3- Wine and Seduction

"Drink."

The King of Mirkwood hands you a glass of wine. It shimmers under the torchlight, the color of blood and fire. You have had wine before. Thick and sour, served in jewel-encrusted goblets, under the watchful eye of your previous master. You can remember the glare of his bright amber eye as you obediently downed goblet after goblet, until the world swirled red, gold, and black. You would dance for him, his fiery breath against your bare flesh.

Thranduil grazes your shoulder with the tips of his fingers. His touch jolts you from your memory, and the glass in your hand quivers.

"Take care not to spill," his voice is low at your ear. "This is a rare vintage. The fruit harvested under the gleam of starlight before the dawn of Tarnin Austa."

He dips a slender finger into his wine, and traces it along your lips. The wine is cold and bittersweet. His finger is hot. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart pounds wildly. You bring the glass to your lips and gulp it down. He catches your hand and pulls the glass from you.

"Such wine is to be savored, not washed down like an inebriant."

"...I thought my lord wanted me to forget," you mumble. The wine is sweet; it lingers on your tongue.

A crease forms between his eyebrows. "Forget?"

The wine cellar is spinning slightly, and you blink. "Smaug would give me drink, so that I would not remember."

"And what would a dragon be so anxious for you to forget?"

You shake your head. "...I don't...remember."

You stumble, and he catches you in his arms. His chest is warm and firm under his silver brocade. The wine is fire in your chest, spreading through you, warm and rich.

"There is more to wine than relief from the past. It burns away deceit, exposing who we truly are. Both the beautiful and the wretched."

He takes a slow sip from the wine. The world is swimming color and light. In the haze, he is beautiful, brilliant and cold like a diamond. But you know the fire that burns within him, dark and deadly. How you long to play with that fire. The burn of the wine has emboldened you, and you trail your finger down his neck, resting on the gnarled gem at his throat. You try to unclasp it. He catches your wrist.

"It seems like you've had too much. You should return to your quarters."

"...No," you whisper. "...We should stay."

Amusement plays on his lips. "Why is that?"

You take his hand and slide his finger into your mouth. You lap at it slowly, sucking off the sweet remnants of the wine. His mouth falls open, and he knits his eyebrows.

"...And what do you think you are doing?" His voice is low and cold, but you can feel his desire growing beneath his trousers. You don't answer. You love the sensation of his fingers on your tongue, filling your mouth. It makes you want something. Something deep. Fulfilling. It must show on your face because he draws a sharp breath. You run your tongue between his fingers, watching his eyes grow dull with lust. You nip his finger gently. He clenches his jaw, his nostrils flaring slightly. You are fire. Every inch of your sensitive skin is crying desperately for the friction of him.

"Touch me," your breathe.

He raises his eyebrows. "...You dare command a king? Must I remind you who is your master?"

Slowly, your tear the fragile silk of your dress, your eyes never leaving his. It comes apart like tissue paper in your fingers and falls to the floor. You wrap your arms around his neck. Pulling him close, you flick the edge of his ear with your tongue. You press your mouth against his ear. "You are, my lord. My king. My master."

He utters something in elvish, something between a curse and a prayer. A battle rages inside him; it consumes his will and his pride like wildfire. You watch him falter, and suddenly you are entwined, conjoined. You are lips and desire and tongue and fingers upon singing flesh. You are fingers grasping, breath fast and urgent, whispers of fabric coming undone. For what is fabric but distance between you and him? You are primal strength and will. You are whole. Blissful, wonderful, and whole.

* * *

You wake, aching with sweet satisfaction. You are sprawled on top of him, naked and slick. His orange robe is splayed over the cellar floor beneath his bare, heaving body. His usual pristine hair now in complete disarray. He is glaring at you.

"...My lord?" You croak. Your throat is sore, as if you've been screaming for hours. He flips over and pins you beneath him. His eyes are dark with anger.

"Ah. You finally wake," he seethes. "Is there anything else you'd like? Anything else you desire? Anything else your _master_ can do to _serve_ you?"

There are bits of twigs, leaves, and berries tangled in his hair. You gingerly reach and pull the pieces from his hair and stare at them.

"...My lord, your crown-"

He snatches the broken pieces from your hands. "Yes, I am well aware. Never in five thousands of years has anyone ever-" he broke off.

You are staring at him, wide-eyed and confused.

"...Do you not remember anything?"

You shake your head nervously.

"...Good." He sighs. He looks relieved. "You are not ever to drink again. Not with anyone else but me. Am I clear?"

You nod, still confused. "...Have I...displeased my lord?"

He licks his lips, as if unsure how to answer your question. Then he pins your arms over your head and kisses you roughly.

"It would please me even more to start over," he growls in your ear. "With your pleasure purely at _my_ whim."


	4. Chapter 4- Flashback 1&2

His claws wrapped around your waist and he whisked you into the air. The world spun beneath you, the shriek of the wind past your ears drowning out your screams. And how you screamed, your throat so raw you tasted blood. But no one could hear.

Your brother, with his strong shoulders and mop of unruly hair. Your mother, with her calloused but beautiful hands. And your father. Your dear, dear father, with his hearty laugh and slight arthritic limp. He had always loved you the best.

"Please," he had begged through charred, bleeding lips, half of his face seared black and red. "Spare her! And she will serve you for the rest of her life!"

The dragon had chuckled, his laugh shaking the very earth beneath your feet. Your mother had been crushed under slabs of smashed rock. Your brother was a shadow of ash against the remains of the courthouse wall. And your broken father was shoving you towards the fiery behemoth with the burnt stumps of what was left of his arms.

You had been so small, so young then, barely understanding what was going on.

But you knew now.

They called it the Desolation of Smaug, but the true desolation lay not in the charred rubble, but of your soul the day everything, everyone you ever loved was laid to waste. The day Smaug took you as slave.

* * *

Smaug kept you deep into his mountain, with its halls of endless gold and charred, leathery corpses. He needed no chain or rope to keep you tethered to him; the magical collar forged in dragon flame around your neck and the promise of a fiery death should you not be back in Erebor by sundown was enough.

Yet you were not the only one he kept as a slave.

Cumber had been in service to the dragon long before you arrived. He was an intelligent man with a wry sense of humor and a mop of dark, unruly hair that reminded you so much of your older brother. When he laughed, his whole body would shake, and you'd join in with the laughter just because of how silly he looked. More than a dozen years had passed since he pried you from the dragon's claws, smoothing your tears away with his dusty sleeve and wrapping you protectively in his strong arms, yet he had not aged a single day. He said it was because he had been a great sorcerer once upon a time, before he lost his powers in a wager and became enslaved.

He was the bravest man you knew, the only one who would dare stand in the way of a dragon. He got into arguments with the beast more often than not, and you would have to drag him to safety before Smaug incinerated him in a stream of raw fire. Despite being a constant thorn at the dragon's side, he was never forced to wear an enchanted collar. You asked him time after time why he never escaped, and he would smile at you sadly and turn away.

He taught you everything you knew, from where to hide among the treasure so to avoid the dragon's bouts of fire-tantrums, to measuring the value of a treasure by examining the gems and the markings. During the day, you would go hunting and scavenging for food together, and at night, he would teach you how to speak his native tongue and read the heavy tomes he had stolen from distant libraries. He never told you what he was looking for, only that there was a curse, and that the curse had to be broken if he were ever truly to be free.


	5. Chapter 5- Oral Fixation

"Open your mouth."

Thranduil brushes your lower lip with a glistening grape, and pushes it into your trembling mouth. It bursts, filling you with a gush of tangy sweetness. You are sitting across his lap, leaning against his arm. He twists another grape from the stem, and gently presses it against your mouth with his thumb. His expression is cool, but you see the simmering in his eyes. You part your lips slightly, accidentally flicking his thumb with your tongue. His lips curl into a half smile. He slowly pushes the tip of his thumb into your mouth, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue swirl about him.

The sweetness in your mouth is making you hungry for something else entirely.

"My lord!" Two guards hurry in front of the throne, their expressions stricken. Embarrassed, you try to pull away, but he holds you in place firmly. He slowly draws his thumb of your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as he does so. He plucks another grape.

"What is it?"

"The spiders have returned. They prowl the borders of our land."

His eyes are fixated on you as he flicks the grape with the tip of his tongue. Then he closes his eyes and laps it slowly, as if savoring the taste. You shiver and swallow hard.

"What lies beyond our lands is not my concern."

"Yes, my lord. But the Prince and the Captain have gone after them alone."

The King of Mirkwood makes no sign that he has heard the guard. He places the grape into his mouth. Then he winds his fingers through your hair and closes his mouth over yours, his tongue drenched in sweetness. He kisses you hungrily, and you whimper into his mouth. Then as quickly as he had kissed you, he draws away, leaving you dizzy and breathless.

"Wait in my quarters. Wear nothing but starlight."

Then he is gone, his sword sheathed at his waist, his guards hurrying after him.

Despite the roaring fire, Thranduil's quarters are freezing, especially with the window open. You've been waiting in his room all day, glancing anxiously at the sky to see if the stars are out tonight. At this rate, you're probably going to catch a cold. You climb into his bed and curl up in a ball, pulling his silken sheets over you. You can always slip out of the sheets when he returns.

* * *

You are not sure when you fall asleep. You dream of darkness, of icy, familiar smoke that curls around your throat, lifting you off your feet and choking you.

_You have forgotten why you are truly here_, it breathes in your ear. _Must I remind you?_

You wake to the sound of low, angry voices. You are slick with cold sweat, your heart beating wildly. Drowsily, you poke your head from the covers and see Thranduil and Legolas arguing. The king's arms are crossed as he stares down at his son icily. Legolas is scowling, his fists clenched at his sides.

"So what if she is a Silvan elf? I see no difference-"

"-The difference is of blood. Heritage. You are son of Thranduil, son of Orophor. And who is she?"

"What does it matter? It is our deeds that determine who we are, not the blood of our forefathers!"

"A prince cavorting with a common Silvan elf. Your deeds do speak volumes."

His son catches sight of you, and he glares at his father.

"…Hypocrite," he spits venomously, and storms out.

Thranduil looks at you from the corner of his eyes and grits his teeth. He goes to the window and slams it shut.

"…Should I take my leave, my lord?" You whisper, unable to look at him. The cold from the nightmare lingers. It claims you had forgotten. But have you not. You merely wished you had.

"It would be wise," he says coolly, refusing to look at you.

Your stomach is in knots as you quietly slip from his bed. As you reach for your clothes, he catches your wrist.

"And when has the King of Greenwood ever been considered wise?"

He shoves you back into bed and climbs over you. In that second, all traces of the nightmare vanish from your mind, and you forget the cold and its intangible threats. Here and now, you are in the arms of a great, beautiful king. His eyes are bright and feverish, and you know he desires you above all else. Heat radiates from his body through his silver brocade, and you remember how hard he was beneath you while you sat on his lap, eating grapes from his sticky fingers.

"You have plagued my thoughts all day, distracting me from pressing issues that required my full attention," He mutters, his breath hot against your ear. "What have you to say for yourself?"

He does not expect an answer. His mouth is over yours, his tongue flicking and plunging. Your body is electric, his touch searing your flesh and setting you aflame. You crave the smoothness of his skin against yours, the desperate ache of friction. You reach to fumble with his tunic, but he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head with one hand. His other hand is sweet torment, teasing you with practiced precision. His teeth grazes the tender vulnerability of your throat, and he leaves a passionate love bite where your neck slopes down to your neck. You cry out, your body arching involuntarily. His mouth makes its way down, savoring the taste of your aching tips, the sensitive curve of your breasts.

"You are a sickness. An addiction." His fingers drag down your trembling stomach. He nips you lightly. "How I wish to be sated of you."

He grasps your thighs, revealing you slowly. A dark smile plays on his lips. He can see how he has kept you waiting. He lifts you and shoves you up against his pillows. His lips are upon you, his tongue hot and slick. Jolts of pleasure wash down your thighs and spread like wildfire through the rest of your body. Mindlessly you clutch at his hair. He narrows his eyes and yanks off his crown, tossing it across the room. Then his fingers are digging into your thighs. He finds the source of your pleasure with his mouth, watching you gasp and squirm and tremble as he toys with you mercilessly. He knows all your secrets.

"How shall I lead by example when you are determined to ruin me?" He murmurs, his breath hot against you.

You answer with choked whimper, and he ravishes you with his tongue in feverish delight. Velveteen heat builds within you, the flicking and kissing and lapping and endless sweet friction that makes you feel so delicious. And suddenly the world is tumbling and spinning and you lose yourself. You scream, your fingers in his hair your legs wrapped around his neck your body arching against him. And how he groans. How he forces you back down and how his breath catches in his throat as you cry out for him. The way he looks at you, half-mad, half lost. He aches for release, but demands your pleasure more.

When the air has left your lungs, when you are spent and trembling, your slick legs draped over his shoulders paralyzed, he pulls himself to you and weaves his fingers through your hair. He kisses you deeply so you taste the nectar of your pleasure. He is shaking, his self control fraying and failing.

" Damn them all," he growls. He rips off his tunic and wraps your legs around his waist. "If I am to be so utterly unraveled by you, then so be it. "

His eyes are glazed with desire. He will devour you whole. And you know he would not have it any other way.


	6. Chapter 6- Revelations

_A shadow hangs over you. It is one of guilt. Of Desire._

Galadriel's gaze is piercing, but the King of Greenwood is not fazed. He is used to her prying at his mind like a nosy woodpecker. He takes a slow sip of wine and meets her gaze with an icy one of his own. She smiles slightly.

_She clouds your thoughts. She has bewitched you._

"She is none of your business." He says quietly. "What is it that you want? You did not come all the way to my realm just to play mind games."

"I have had a vision. It concerns the human you've kept hidden in the heart of Mirkwood."

"Greenwood."

"You know these woods are not what they used to be." She circles him slowly like a vulture. "I saw a great evil fester and spread, choking out the light. I saw Mirkwood overcome with darkness, your vibrant woods reduced to gnarled husks, sapped dry of life and magic. Your kingdom lost forever, your people corrupted and destroyed."

His lips curled in a wry smile. "The Lady of Lórien brings such auspicious tidings. Doom. Devastation."

"Death," she murmured. "Should Mirkwood fall to darkness, no one shall be safe. All of Middle Earth shall be in grave danger."

"And what does all this have to do with her?"

"…She shall be the spark that ignites the inferno, the one that ushers in the dark."

He raises his eyebrows. "And you have seen this? In your vision?"

"Where she walks, she brings ruin. You know nothing of this human that you have stolen from a dragon."

"I know enough," He growled.

"She is tainted by dark magic, Thranduil. I can sense her presence in your halls, yet I cannot read her thoughts."

"Then read mine. I _know_ her. She is no danger."

_It seems as if you have allowed her into more than just your halls. Could it be she has found her way into your heart?_

He slams down his glass, wine splattering about like blood. "Are you finished?"

She bows slightly. "I shall take my leave." As she glides away, she turns back to look at him with cold, knowing eyes.

_You know nothing of the woman you take to your bed, Thranduil. Darkness feeds darkness. You put us all in danger._

* * *

The black smoke runs its icy fingers through your hair, crawling up and down your scalp like a thousand ants.

"Please," you beg. "Don't ask this of me! I no longer serve Smaug!"

It wraps itself around you like a snake, its grip tightening around your neck. You are terrified, but it is not death that you fear. There are far worse things that can happen when one betrays the dark.

You wake abruptly, your entire body shaking. Your sheets are tangled about your legs, your nightgown hiked up your thighs. Thranduil is standing over you by your bed, a hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His face is pale, as if he has seen a ghost.

"You were murmuring Black Speech as you slept. Never has anyone uttered that tongue in these halls and lived."

Your eyes widen and you clutch at your covers. "I am so sorry, my lord. I did not realize-"

"Galadriel came bearing ill-prophecy, and I defended you without a second thought. And now I find out that you speak the dark tongue of Mordor? How is it that one such as you speaks such a cursed tongue?"

"…Cumber taught me, my lord. I did not know it was forbidden-"

"-Cumber? Who is this Cumber?"

"He is my…" You swallow nervously. Guardian? Confidante? Companion? You feel a pang at the thought of him. Cumber would know what to do about the darkness. He always knew everything. And suddenly you realize how much you miss him, his pompous arrogance and sardonic smile. He must think you dead now, burnt to cinders by Smaug's enchanted collar.

"…He and I both served Smaug," you manage haltingly.

Thranduil is studying your expression with narrowed eyes. "And what unsavory, foul creature of Mordor is he?"

You try to hide your indignance. "He is human! He is the most gentle, caring, and wonderful man."

His eyes flash at your words. "…You seem very fond of him," he says quietly, his expression unreadable.

"Cumber has cared for me since I was taken by Smaug. He has risked my master's wrath time and time again to protect me-"

He presses a finger against your lips. His eyes are bright with displeasure. "I am your master," he growls. "And I will not have you speaking of another man with such…fondness."

You lick your lips nervously. "I'm sorry, my lord. It's just he has been nothing but kind to me-"

In a second, he is upon you, pinning you down as a tiger pins down his prey. Blood pounds in your ears as you feel the heat radiating from his body. He is taut muscle and firm, warm flesh beneath his silver brocade, and you are at once both fear and desire. Slowly, he slips the silken strap of your nightgown off your shoulder and brushes your hair back, exposing your neck. His touch is hot against your flesh, and you are painfully aware of the sensation.

"…And have I not been kind to you?" His words are hot and breathy against your sensitive ear.

Slowly, he runs his tongue along the edge of your ear, and you gasp out loud. He kisses you roughly down your neck, soothing his love bites with flicks of his hot, wet tongue. His fingers slide under your nightgown, grasping at you and caressing your swollen tips in the palm of his hands. His stares at you, his eyes dark and demanding.

"Were you dreaming of him just now? Is that why you were murmuring in Black Speech?"

"…N-no!"

His lips curl ever the so slightly. "Good. Because if you were, I will see to it that you never sleep again."

His eyes never leave yours as he closes his mouth over an aching tip, every flick of his tongue sends flames searing through your being. His hand finds his way to your hips, and he pulls your nightgown to your waist, exposing your flimsy undergarments. His eyes wander low, and he bites his lip slightly. His long, slender fingers trail down your trembling stomach and slides between your thighs. With slow deliberation, he grazes you through your undergarments. You mewl softly, begging him with your eyes.

"…How much do you want me?" His voice is hoarse.

"…My lord," You whimper.

He savors your cries as he teases you through the flimsy fabric.

"I do not care that you do not find me gentle, or caring," he murmurs, his fingers searing through the silk. "But I will not stand for you holding some other man in higher regard. No one should occupy your thoughts but me."

He wraps an arm around you possessively as his fingers slip beneath the soaked fabric. You whimper, pawing at him desperately. He is sweet torment, his fingers barely where you need him the most.

"You are mine," he breathes. "Say it."

"…My lord," You beg, grinding yourself against his fingers.

"Say it!"

The words comes from deep within you, half confession, half desperation. And he knows you mean it, with every ragged breath, with every beat of your aching heart. He loses his breath and his mouth finds yours and his tongue is sweet urgency and his fingers- Oh he is where he should have been all this while! His friction is intoxicating, smooth and pure exhilaration. He pushes you closer to oblivion with each slick, velveteen stroke into the heart of you, the source of your desires. His eyes are heavy with need as he drinks in the pleasure in yours. And suddenly you are the warmth and pleasure spreading inside you like a thousand blossoms blooming. You are the burst of starlight in his midnight eyes, the delicious groan in his mouth. He clasps you tightly against him, feeling the electricity dance through your limbs. He looks at you with eyes thick with emotion. And in that moment, you realize that you have lost your heart to him, that your soul is his as his is yours. He is the very air you breathe, the very beat of your heart.

His expression is soft, and he gazes at you as if there is nothing else in the world. "…How can this be darkness when all I feel is light?"

At his words, a part of you crumbles and dies.

Because you know what is coming, what evil slowly spreads north from the ruins of Dol Guldur. You know, because you were the one that had wakened it. And you've brought it straight into the heart of Mirkwood.


	7. Chapter 7- Flashback 5- First Love

Cumber was waist-deep in the river, his dark hair plastered against his face. Glistening beads of water slid down his broad, muscular chest, leaving trails of silver down his well-defined abs. In the light of the setting sun, he was a gleaming god of a man: Ageless, chiseled perfection. He swept his hair from his gold-flecked eyes and caught you staring. He smirked at you. You smirked back.

"I've told you before. It's unlady-like to stare."

You tossed your hair back and gave him a mischievous grin. "It's not like there's anything I haven't seen before."

"Then why are you staring?"

Your grin spread wider, and he flushed slightly. Sighing, he looked away.

"…You should spend more time with boys your age. I've seen them follow you around Laketown."

"They're _boys_. And they all stink of fish."

"Your standards are too high."

"Depends on who I'm comparing them to."

He rolled his eyes. "If I am your criteria, then you shall die an old maid."

"Then it's up for you to remedy that, don't you think?"

He stiffened, the color draining from his face. "…We've gone over this before."

"I'm a grown woman! I've been for the past how many years now-"

"-We are not having this conversation," he growled. "Turn the other way. I'm getting out."

"Oh come on-"

"Now." His eyes flashed with anger. You knew not to argue with him, so you turned your back, crossing your arms sullenly.

There was a roar in the distance as the ground shook beneath you. Smaug was awake.

"…We should return," he muttered behind you. "Heaven knows what that beast is carrying on about."

Your foot caught on a rock as you stepped from the riverbank, and you went flying. His arms were around you before you landed flat on your face. He held you close, his eyes wide with worry.

"Clumsy girl, you. Are you hurt?"

This was not the first time he had held you in his arms, although you realized that he hadn't done so in years. He used to be so affectionate, planting kisses on your forehead before you fell asleep, wrapping you in his arms when you were sad or lonely. Now, he kept you at arm's length, flinching whenever you touched.

What caused this rift between you was a mystery, but that hardly mattered now. His leather vest was open, and you couldn't help notice how nice his chest felt beneath your fingers. Your heart pounded like a drum, guilty pleasure simmering through you. He was so beautiful, all man and muscle coupled with a mind as clear and brilliant as a diamond. Your fingers trail down his chest, slow and suggestively. You had never touched him like this before, and the excitement of it all was making you dizzy.

His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes glazed over with an emotion that at once thrilled and frightened you. You wanted him to grab you with his strong coarse hands and force you down into the summer grass. To free you from the confines of your clothes as he ravished your mouth with those tantalizing lips. You wanted to feel him grind his slick, body against yours, wanted him to spread your knees and touch you and discover you, to show you the secrets of what it meant to be a woman.

He slapped your hand away.

And then he was ten feet away from you, frantically gathering your hunting gear.

"…Last one back to Erebor has to clean up after Smaug," he muttered, refusing to look at you. Then he hurried back towards the Lonely Mountain as fast as his legs could carry him.

You followed after him, your fingers tingling. You smile. One day he would stop treating you as a child, and see you for the woman you've become. And then maybe he would finally understand just how much you've loved him all this time.


	8. Chapter8-Flashback 4-Secrets in the Dark

Cumber's head was buried into his arm, pressed against the wall. He hissed through gritted teeth as if he were in pain. His eyes were closed, his body slicked with sweat. His shirt was tossed carelessly on his bed. His trousers were bunched around his ankles.

You bit your lip and smiled to yourself.

He was in one of his moods again. After spending half the morning obsessively polishing gold pieces, he spent the rest of the day furiously scrubbing at Smaug's scorch marks in the main hall, muttering about having all the gold of Erebor yet being forced to live in dereliction. When he ran out of things to obsess over, he sent you out to go count the number of fishing boats that entered and left the harbor. Research, he called it.

This was not the first time he sent you on some pointless, time-consuming errand. Last week he insisted you go all the way to Laketown to buy leather when he knew the tanner had fallen ill and closed shop for the month. The week before, he sent you to gather athelas when the supply closet was still stocked to the brim.

What kind of idiot did he take you for? You knew quite well why he wanted you out of Erebor. You noticed the way his eyes gradually became dull and unfocused over the days, the way his voice cracked more often than not, as if he were under great duress. So you gave him your most innocent smile and skipped down the mountain. Then when he thought you gone, you slipped back, trailing behind him in secret. Normally, he'd sense your presence immediately. But his mood was all-consuming, and you knew he was too caught up to pay attention to his surroundings.

You crouched hidden behind a fallen column, peeking through a tiny crack in the intricately carved stone. He was in his room, or at least, what he called his room. It was really just a large hole Smaug had gouged out of the wall with its tail during one of its temper tantrums. The ceilings of the dwarven rooms were too low for Cumber's liking, so he made the hole his own personal space, setting up a bed, a desk, and several shelves filled with strange bottles and a dark crystal ball. There used to be a heavy curtain of animal skins hanging at the entrance for the sake of his privacy, but Smaug had eaten them in a case of the munchies and Cumber had been too preoccupied to replace it.

He was leaning against the wall next to the bed, thrusting violently into his clenched fist. He threw himself into every heave, grunting low and harsh. It was strange, watching the gentle, soft-spoken man you knew him to be wracked with such savage passion. You could hear Smaug growl in the treasure room below, gold rushing over its enormous body like a waterfall. It was the growl it made when it was hungry; in a few hours it would be tearing through the halls threatening to eat you both if it were not fed immediately. Cumber paid no heed to the beast; he was too focused on sating his own hunger.

You knew enough about men to know what was going on. How it all worked. Not that Cumber offered any enlightenment. He had turned an awful shade of pale when you asked, and he told you bluntly never to ask him again. The boys in Laketown, on the other hand, were more than eager to explain. You watched and learned with the clear, analytical mind of a scholar, asking questions and taking mental notes. It was really more out of curiosity than any actual desire.

But watching Cumber strain against his grasp, his muscular shoulders taut, his buttocks clenched, you felt the pit of your stomach stirr in the most delightful way. The boys in Laketown were just that: Boys. Cumber was so much more in every way. He was mesmerizing to watch, a muscular animal of mindless masculinity. You loved how the light cast shadows on his carved flesh, every bit of him sculpted perfection moving to the momentum of all-consuming desire. As his rhythmic thrusting grew faster, his groans grew louder. You wrapped your arms around your knees, your heart hammering in your chest as you wondered what it would be like to be the one he gave in to with such reckless abandon.

He uttered a choked sob and slammed a fist furiously into the wall. It cracked and pieces of granite fell and clattered to the floor. He turned around and slid down the rock, slumping over as his other hand continued its slippery agitation. His mouth was slightly parted, his tongue running across parched, thirsty lips. His breath was ragged, his expression miserable. His eyes were blank with need, his brows knitted in agony. He slammed the back of his head against the wall and roared like a wounded animal. More bits of rock fell from the wall, dusting his dark hair. He was in such excruciating torment, like a bear struggling to break free from an iron trap. What was he doing wrong, that he wasn't finding release? You wanted to go to him, to kiss away the sweat on his brow and touch him. You would gladly share in his sweet suffering, if he would allow it. But you dared not risk revealing your presence. You have never seen him so antagonized, so violently out of control. If he ever found out you were watching him… A guilty deliciousness shivered through you.

He shook his head and groaned in breathy aggravation, a look of dull resignation on his face. Wobbling to his feet, he kicked his trousers aside and dragged himself to his desk. His arousal was painfully unabated as he yanked open his drawer and rummaged around with clumsy hands. Your eyes widened as he drew out a familiar wreath of withered flowers.

Spring had finally returned after a cruel, terrible winter, and you had spent the day picking fresh lilies and jasmine, weaving them into a fragrant crown. You caught him staring as you put the wreath in your hair. He jerked his gaze away and smirked, mumbling something snarky and annoying like he always did. You got upset and threw the wreath at him, storming back to Erebor alone. You had completely forgotten about that incident, and what he had said that ticked you off. Yet he had secretly kept the wreath, even though he found it foolish.

His eyes softened as he looked at it, feeling the papery petals between trembling fingers. He seemed wistful. Sad even. Then he held it to his face and inhaled its sweet perfume. He fell back into his bed, his eyes closed, his other hand now tracing the source of his torment with slow tenderness. His fingertips slipped smoothly from the dripping tip down the slick, rigid thickness and back up again in slow, gentle strokes. He murmured soft nothings into the mess of fragrant petals buried in his face. With every delicate graze of his fingers, he quaked uncontrollably. Finally, he could no longer stand his own delicate teasing, and his fist clenched down, his thumb flicking along the glistening ridge as he granted the full friction he so brutally desired. He arched his back, thrusting into the air with wild fervor, faster and faster and faster. You bit down on your hand, afraid he would hear the soft gasps coming from your own throat. He suddenly jerked violently.

In that moment, your name fell from his lips in a desperate, tortured whisper.

He came, his entire body convulsing, the wreath clutched against his heaving chest. His seed spilled down his fist, dripping thick and heavy down his thighs and drenching the bedsheet. He collapsed, tremors dancing across his body. His breath left him in a wisp of brilliant red flame that curled from his lips like glowing smoke. Then he fell back and was unconscious, the sweet scent of a forgotten spring filling the air.

Down in the treasure room, Smaug roared.


	9. Chapter 9-Flashback5- Wine & Destruction

Chest pains. The little devil had faked chest pains and deliberately grabbed his hands and pressed them against her. It had been a struggle, but she finally released him. But not before she caught in his expression his painful awareness of her warm softness.

Cumber buried his face into his hands, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his head and loins. A whole day he wasted standing under a waterfall, trying in vain to chill the flame that she had so carelessly ignited. And now it was night. The burning was unabated, and the dull haze that had filled his mind grew thicker by the minute.

Her teasing could not have come at a worse time. The full moon was out, and the beast within would overtake him tonight. Smaug was a sick opportunist, and it would take advantage of his weakness. He was not certain if he had the strength to stop it.

"You can come out of hiding now," Smaug rumbled from the treasure chamber. "Her eyes have gone dark."

Cumber stepped cautiously into the light, and his heart wrenched at the sight of her.

Her lips were stained with wine, her eyes blank and swimming with tears.

"...Smaug said it would eat you," she blubbered. "...It said it would tear you, limb by limb, unless I finished every last drop."

"...And make her pick out your bones from between my teeth, I might add." Smaug rumbled, a toothy grin stretching across its hideous face. "Such a good girl. So very obliging."

"...It's ok," She whispers softly. "...I drank it all. You're safe now."

Guilt and bittersweet affection seized him, and he wrapped her in a tight embrace. She softened against him and her empty goblet clattered against the treasure. The dragon had made her drink too much. It always gave her too much.

But secrets had to stay secret, and she could not be allowed to remember.

"Is she not so much sweeter with the flush of wine upon her cheeks? Look how she shivers, how her pupils darken. She is a tasty morsel, she is."

"Would you shut it?" Cumber growled irritably. "It's bad enough you've frightened her so. She would have drank the wine without your threats."

Thick, black smoke curled from Smaug's nostrils in amusement. "But what would be the fun in that?"

"...Monster," he spat.

Smaug laugh's boomed across the hall, and mounds of treasure shimmied down his colossal form. "No. Tonight, you're the monster."

It pulled itself from the gold, spreading its wings like a monstrous bat. Brilliant blue flame curled around the dragon like fingers, enveloping it in a fiery grasp before swallowing it whole. She wailed fearfully, and Cumber clasped her tight against him, shielding her from the blast of heat.

In the ashes of the dragon stood a man with dark, unruly hair, with high, chiseled cheekbones and an angular jaw. He was a splitting image of Cumber. But of course he was. Cumber and Smaug were one and the same, a single soul split in two. One a dragon, and the other a man. Until the moon swelled in full, when the the pull forced them to switch forms for the night.

Smaug dusted the ash from his shoulders and strode forward. He stretched out his arms and back, refamiliarizing with the muscular flesh of the human form. He cocked his head to the side and beckoned to him.

"My turn to hold her, don't you think?"

Cumber narrowed his eyes and held her tighter against him. "...What do you want with her?"

Smuag snorted. "Night after night you fill my dreams with her. And you ask me what I want?" He stepped behind her, running his palms along her waist. Startled, she turned to face him. She frowned in confusion, looking back and forth at Cumber and Smaug.

"You fill my dreams with carnage and death. Yet you do not see me ravaging villages every full moon."

"That is because you are a coward! I do not fear my urges, I indulge them! That is why I am the dragon, and you are the weak, pathetic little meat bag who can't even tend to our needs properly!"

"...I do tend to our needs properly."

"You think I do not feel the constant ache in your loins, the fluttering in your heart? If you refuse to let me eat her, at least allow me to fulfill one of my needs."

Cumber felt flame curl in his throat. "Is it not enough that we massacred her family!" He seethed. "You would have us take her innocence as well?"

"I recall her willing. More than willing, in fact." Smaug ran his hand slowly along her neck and down her shoulders, enjoying how she shivered under his touch.

"She does not know who she offers herself to! I should have stopped you. I should have-"

"-As if you had the strength, you puny, miserable thing. You barely have the strength to stop me now. I feel the density of your mind. You are slow. Stupid."

"...Cumber," she breathed, looking dazed from staring between the two them."...There's two of you."

"No," Smaug murmured, pressing his body into her so she was sandwiched between them. "You've had too much wine. There's just the one."

She flushed slightly. "...I...don't mind… having two..."

"...You don't mind having two, when you haven't had even one?" Smaug purred in her ear, his hands grazing down her back. "You're a greedy little thing, aren't you." She shivered, and leaned in against Cumber. Her body molded to his, soft and supple. He could feel her arousal through her thin cotton dress. She was so soft yet firm. Just like this morning. His innards stirred guiltily. Smaug gently grazed his teeth along her neck, and she trembled. She looked up at Cumber with eyes dark with wine and lust.

"...Touch me," she whispered. "Please?"

His mouth was dry, his head pounding uncontrollably. He reluctantly pulled himself from her, taking several steps back.

"...I can't."

Smaug smiled slyly and took her hands in his. "...Show me how you want to be touched."

"Don't-" Cumber's eyes widened as she slowly guided his hand between her thighs. Smaug's breath escaped him in a soft hiss.

Cumber wrenched his hand from her. "Have you no shame? Do you not recall how we've wronged her?"

Smaug amber eyes were gleaming. "...You feel how drenched she is," He whispered. He raised his fingers and brushed her nectar across Cumber's lips, then leaned over and lapped them from his lips. "...Delicious, isn't she?"

"...Control yourself." Cumber growled. Smaug threw his head back and laughed.

"I do as I please. And this..." He slid his hand between her thighs, lightly grinding against her desire with his knuckle. "...Pleases me."

She mewed and leaned against him, her back arching at the friction. Cumber grabbed her shoulders and tried to pull her away. She wove her fingers through his hair and pulled him close. There was fire mirrored in her half-open eyes as she kissed him. Her lips were sweet and ripe like summer cherries. Her fingernails were digging delightfully into his chest. He felt the blood drain away from his face; the hunger he had tried so hard to repress reared its ugly head.

"Do you think she touches herself, thinking of us?" Smaug traced his ring finger lightly along her slick heat. "In the dark of the night, small, delicate fingers curling, exploring..." His finger slid into her heat, coaxing a moan from her throat and into Cumber's mouth.

"...Sweet, muffled cries breathed into her pillow. The scent of her desire soaking the air..."

Cumber shook his head slowly. "...Would you...shut up…Please."

"...So deliciously tight. Ripe and desperate to be plucked..."

Cumber uttered an involuntary cry, and Smaug snickered. Her hands danced down to his waistband, tracing precariously near his growing desire.

"...Don't do that," He choked, although he could not bring himself to stop her.

"...But it's...not...fair," she whimpered, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're...touching...me…"

"You selfish bastard," Smaug hissed. "You would deny me pleasure?"

Cumber's breath caught in his throat as her fingers grazed slowly up and down the length of him through his trousers. Both man and beast shuddered at the sensation. His mind was thick with smoke. With every slow friction it was getting harder to think. He had to. Make her stop. But the jolts of heat. Running up and down. So very. Welcome.

He choked out a sob as she slipped him free.

"...What are you doing?" His throaty protest rang hollow in his own ears.

"Taste him," Smaug breathed in her ear. "Until he melts in your pretty mouth."

She pushed him down with surprising strength. And suddenly all he saw was red. Dark, delicious red that shivered through him in waves of scorching electricity. Her hungry little mouth lapping and suckling, her throat humming with desire. He gripped her hair and tried to pull her off him. But oh god her lips. Her tongue. His eyes rolled back and a deep, guttural groan escaped him. Slippery, wet heat curled about him, blinding him with smooth, tight friction.

Where had she learned how to-

How did she know-

He was slipping away, further and further into the tantalizing flicks and swirl of a deliciously nimble tongue. Her hair was bunched in his fingers as he guided her to take him harder, deeper. Smaug was behind her, his fingers slow and steady, his eyes boring into Cumber's with a hazy victory. She cried out, her legs shaking under the growing weight of her climax. Cumber felt that deep twist of boiling pleasure inside him, the pent up glow of white hot tension building like fire ready to erupt from a dragon.

Fire.

Dragon.

He jerked away from her. The agony of guilt twisted with unfulfilled desire was worse than death. But he was unraveling, flames flicking at his flesh, consuming him whole in unstoppable voracity. He saw the blinding terror blossom in her eyes and overtake her in a bloodcurdling scream as she saw what he was becoming.

If she ever comprehended the truth of who he was, what he was. He would lose her forever.

His wretched guilt and self-loathing erupted from the depths of him in a stream of fire. And then he was growing. Stretching. Wings shot from between his shoulder blades. The human gave way to leathery skin and iron scales, monstrous limbs like ancient trees and claws like deadly meathooks. From the ashes of the man, rose the dragon.

She was unconscious; the wine and fear had been too much for her. Smaug threw a jewel-crusted helmet at him irritably. It glanced off his scales harmlessly, and Cumber flicked him away. He curled his tail around her protectively.

Tomorrow, she would wake remembering nothing.


	10. Chapter 10- Watchful Eyes

"What sort of barbarians are the Mirkwood elves that we keep prisoners as slaves?"

Legolas is leaning in the doorway with a scowl on his face. Thranduil turns from his maps and arches an eyebrow.

"...That ship has sailed months ago."

"Then unsail it. Send her back to her people."

The King of Mirkwood smirks. He straightens himself to meet his son's accusing gaze. "If you recall, she is to be in my service a year for every gem she has taken from my coffers. That debt has not been paid."

"So you stoop to the depravity of orcs? Of goblins? What sort of justice involves forcing a prisoner to your bed?"

A pale vein at Thranduil's temple strains. "I would hardly compare my treatment of her to that of orcs. And neither would I consider my actions forceful. I doubt she has found our arrangement… displeasing."

"Elves do not take slaves. Elves do not _sleep_ with prisoners."

"...Elves do not question the decisions and private affairs of their _king_."

"Whatever has come over you; it is unwholesome. Unnatural. Your should be thinking of my mother in the Hall of Mandos, not wasting away over a human."

Thranduil slams his fist against his desk. "Do not speak to me of your mother. You were but a mewling babe who could barely string two words together. What do you know of her."

"The Silvan Elves still remember as the emerald of Greenwood, the most beautiful and wisest Queen they have known. You had to have loved her, to have brought me to this world. "

"...Are you finished?"

Unspoken accusations hang heavy in the poisoned air. Legolas turns away, leaving Thranduil alone with his maps.

He stares at them for a long time, then violently shoves them off his desk.

* * *

Blood red eyes you've painted in the dead of the night, hidden deep in shadow on broken statues, across branches bound with spider web, and under abandoned bridges overtaken by vines. The darkness sees all now, its gaze piercing through the twisted trees and the thick, unyielding haze of the forest.

The rose-petalled bath washed away the grime and lichen stains from your skin. It did nothing to wash the ugly guilt that clung to your soul. You stare at the woman in the mirror wrapped in a damp cream towel, clutching a wooden hairbrush in a shaking hand. You are unsure if you recognize your reflection anymore. You are a shadow of who you were, and you do not know at this rate what you will become.

_It was there all along, hidden in plain sight..._

You snap your head back, trying to block its voice from your mind. You should never have taken Cumber's crystal ball, should never have heeded its whispers. But was too late now. The darkness has slipped into your soul and compels you to its will.

"...You should be asleep."

Thranduil's voice jerks you from your thoughts, and the darkness settles in the back of your mind. The hairbrush slips from your fingers, and he catches it effortlessly before it clatters to the floor. He is in his evening robe of speckled copper and gold, his hair loose and uncrowned. He turns you back around so you are facing the mirror.

"Allow me."

He clasps the slope of your shoulder with a firm hand and gently runs the brush through your damp hair. He smells of leather-bound books and ink tinged with the spice of autumn. His touch is soothing. Familiar.

It only makes your guilt that much more unbearable.

You want to cry, want to grab him and shake him out of his obliviousness. You wish so desperately to confess what you have done and warn him of the horrors that await all of Mirkwood. But the darkness grips your tongue and forces your words back down your throat. He watches your expression through the mirror.

"You seem melancholy."

"...It will pass, my lord."

A slight crease forms in his brow. "There is a distance between us I cannot close, a darkness in your eyes so strange yet so familiar."

There is a sharp pang in your chest. You have fallen asleep to the loving brush of his hand against your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breath as you lay spent against his chest. You have felt the beat of his heart echo your own as you mold perfectly in such seamless completion. But the darkness has carved into your soul and hollowed out your heart. The distance is as inevitable as your betrayal. You must not allow him to get any closer, to keep him whole in the end. It is the least you can do.

"...I have displeased you, my lord."

"I desire your thoughts, not your courtesy." The crease in his brow deepens. "You and I have shared flesh night after night. Is the intimacy between us no more than carnal?"

You wring your hands. You cannot meet his gaze. "...My lord-"

He releases you. "Enough with the formalities. Is that all I am, your lord, your master? Who would I be if I were to release you from my service?"

You turn away from him. "...You are king. You will always be king."

He closes his eyes, as if he has been slapped. "To you," he says softly. "Who would I be to you?"

The only answer you can afford him is guilty silence. His expression is unreadable, but you can feel the weight of his pain through his unrelenting gaze.

"...I have stood under the downpour of this everlasting life with my arms outstretched, waiting for the heavens to give meaning back to my life. I have lived thousands of lifetimes, wanting. Waiting. Keeping my palms open against the cold sting of the torrent, knowing full well what has been lost can never be reclaimed. Yet for once, the skies parted for me. I have finally found something tangible in my grasp. Do not resent me if I will not let you go."

He turns to leave.

You know you should let him leave, let him continue to believe that you are only his through tyranny, not because you want to be. But you are bleeding within, and your frazzled emotions threaten to overwhelm you. You catch his arm in your moment of weakness.

"...Thranduil."

You have never called him by his name, not even in your greatest throes of passion. He stops and turns slowly, his eyes soft. You wish he could read the truth in your eyes, feel the ache in your heart. You clasp his hand against your chest.

"Please," you whisper. "Stay tonight."

"...I do not have the heart to stay."

You bite your lip and tighten your grasp. His hand is hot through your damp towel, and you shiver slightly. His eyes are dark, his expression unreadable.

"...Do you yearn for me?"

He already knows the answer. He can see it from the flush on your skin, the way you tremble at his proximity. But this is the only aching truth you dare reveal.

"Yes," you breathe.

He runs a finger lightly along the edge of the towel, grazing your sensitive flesh. Your breath catches in your throat as it comes undone, crumpling at your feet. Pinpricks skitter across your bare skin. His eyes caress you with the intimacy of one whose fingertips have traversed the curves and hollow of your body, tracing every freckle, every perfect imperfection as he would trace a map of his beloved realm. You feel the heat of his gaze linger where he knows you to be most vulnerable, most anxious for his touch.

"...If I am to be nothing but master of your desire, then I will have you worship that desire with the very essence of your being."

He drags a chair from the corner and sets it close in front of the mirror. He motions for you to sit. He stands behind you, his hands resting firmly on the back of the chair. He leans forward, his lips a whisper from your ear.

"Your are mine and you shall do as I command. You will heed my voice as if it were your own, knead your flesh as if it were my hand. Your desire is at my whim. Do you understand?"

You nod, your throat tight.

"Good," he murmurs, his voice is dark velvet dragged across your senses. "I want you to cup your breasts, feel the weight, the soft fullness in your palms. I want you to squeeze them, mold them. Watch the skin flush pink under your grasp… Watch how your rosebuds tighten and blush in anxious anticipation."

Your breath hitches as you catch your reflection.

"Don't look away. I want you to see what I see when I look at you. Take those perfect rosebuds between your forefinger and thumb. I want you to pluck them for me, hard enough so you feel them sting. Focus as pain blossoms into pleasure between your fingers, seeping through your body like warm rain on a spring day."

His eyes are filled with sad yearning as he takes in your expression.

"...Now part your legs. Show yourself to me. Slowly, like petals unfurling to take in the sun. I want to see all of you. Draw your fingers from your breasts, graze them down your belly and rest them lightly against your inner thighs. Let them whisper against your skin as you trail them slowly down to your knees and up the tender flesh back of your legs… Look how you glisten. You're dripping like honey… You know how much I love the taste of honey."

You are trembling, every inch of your flesh crying for contact. Yet he stays firmly behind the chair, cool and unmoving like stone. He continues, fully aware of your torment but purposely callous in his inaction.

"...Trace your fingers around the petals of your sex, like you would caress the most delicate of blossoms. Dip your fingertips in the nectar, and brush them along your hidden pearl… Slowly, my dear. Slow, like the sweet drip of amber, the sigh of ancient trees… Keep your legs open. I want to see you at play. Coat a finger, and slip inside. Let your lust pull you deeper into its succulent sweetness, and withdraw slowly, so you feel the very friction you so desire. Allow a second finger to whet your hunger. Feel how you envelop and stretch to accommodate my will. Pull and plunge with my ardor, my demand. Let your other hand flutter slightly over your swollen pearl, like the hover of a honeybee..."

You cry out as heat dances across your body and intense pleasure curls deep within. His fingers dig into the back of the chair.

"...Such beauty in wanton lust," he breathes. "The slow, all-consuming burn, the desperate need for completion of the flesh. I too have such a need, such strong, insatiable desire. But there is a much greater hunger that begs to be fulfilled. The heart has always sought pleasure first, and that you have denied me, despite our intimacy, despite my efforts. So tell me. What is your master to do?"

"...Please," You gasp. This is too much. You are guilt swallowed by the inferno of lust, drenched in the acid of misunderstanding. Your emotions eat at the core of you as pleasure roils through through your being like a firestorm. You cannot stop but you cannot continue. He kneels down before you, so that you are eye to eye. He gently touches your cheek.

"I have gone about this all wrong, from the moment my men brought you to me. Tell me that it is not too late to remedy what is between us, that the source of your desire can come from more than just being enslaved by a king. But from _me_."

The look in his eyes sends you over the edge. You close your mouth over his as you are wracked with your climax. With a tortured groan, he wraps you in a crushing embrace until you have fully unravelled in his arms. Then your emotions break from their restraint and come gushing forth in heaving sobs.

"_Amin hiraetha_," he murmurs bitterly, kissing your tears away and smoothing his hand against your hair with aching tenderness. "I know matters of the heart cannot be coerced. You should have let me go tonight."

You grit your teeth and shake your head violently. The truth can never be spoken, but you are determined to show him the extent of your emotions, whether he comprehends or not. With tears still rolling down your cheeks, you unfasten his robe. He does not try to stop you.

Outside the window, a painted red eye stares unblinking from a vine-covered tree.


	11. Chapter 11-Flashback6- Loss of lnnocence

Cumber's fingernails dug into her flesh as he pounded into her with the madness of a thousand sleepless nights.

_Cumber..._ From her slick, swollen lips his name was a fervent command he could not disobey, a breath of sweet oxygen stoking the embers of his desire to feverish new heights. She moved with him, her heart-shaped ass slapping viciously against his thighs as she welcomed him deeper with every thrust, every grind.

_Love me, Cumber..._

Love. She was his love, his glimmer of light in the dark, the one that kept him tethered to his humanity. He would tear his heart out for her, if it was what she desired.

_Give it to me,_ she breathed. _I want all of you…_

She was the the gentle to his rough, the quenching cool to his crackling drought. He needed to make love to her, watch how his pleasure rippled through her as they found each other. He withdrew from her, and she grumbled in annoyance. Chuckling, he turned her so that she was facing him. Impatiently, she lowered herself onto him, wrapping her lovely legs tight about his waist. She was tight, fiery pleasure swallowing him whole, clenching him in perfect completion. She looked up at him with adoration, her eyes bright and feverish. She was perfect: Beauty, innocence, and eros made into delicate, fragile flesh. And she was his and his alone. Together they moved in delirious ecstasy, revealing all the secrets of the universe with every thrust, every stroke. He could feel himself unravel, blue flame dancing about his flesh as he became undone. Exposed. He was pure fire, a soul forged in the depths of Mount Doom, his earthly form falling away as one would shed a cloak.

Dimly, he was aware he had gone too far.

"...We have to stop." His voice was not his own, but that of the beast. His fingers were streaked with fire. "...You'll get burned."

She took his hands and slid them over her perfect breasts.

_Don't stop, Cumber. Don't you want to watch me burn?_ Her eyes had gone dark with wine. _Like you watched my family burn?_

The flame curled up her smooth flesh, leaving a trail of puckered blisters in its path.

"No, please!" He gasped, trying to push her away from him before he could hurt her even more. He grappled with her in vain, leaving handprints of charred, twisted flesh that smoldered and blackened where his skin grazed her. "You must release me!"

But she clung onto him, fire in her wide, wide eyes. _Why did you keep me alive? Was it so you could fuck me the moment I became a woman?_

"NO!" He was crying now. He was killing her. Consuming her in dragonfire. Her hair was aflame, beautiful tresses blazing red then singed to shrivelled black. But she would not let go, not even when all that was left of her was burnt leather stretched over a blackened skeleton. He wept, clutching her tiny frame against his chest in soul-wrenching regret.

_Love_, she whispered, her grinning skull falling into ashes in his arms. _It's all I ever wanted._

* * *

"NO!" Cumber gasped. He bolted upright, his face smeared with tears.

It was all just a dream. Nothing but a dream.

"Are you alright?" She was sitting by his bed clutching the edge of his covers anxiously.

He shot out of bed. "Y-You!" He choked out, his voice cracking. Guilt tore at his insides like a feral pack of wolves. He felt like retching. "What are you doing here?"

"You were crying out in your sleep, so I thought I'd come in and-"

"-NEVER come into my room!" He yanked his cover roughly from under her and wrapped it around his waist.

"...Someone's in a lousy mood."

"Get out."

"But-"

"GET OUT!"

She crossed her arms. "Or you'll what?"

He dared not touch her. Not with the dream so vivid and real in his mind. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"...Go bring in the goats. The dragon will be hungry soon."

He pushed past her towards the hall.

"You were calling my name. In your sleep."

He stopped in his tracks. "...You heard wrong."

She reached out and touched his arm. It was the lightest of caresses, innocent and loving, yet he could feel himself harden beneath the cover. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"You can deny it all you want. Even if it takes a lifetime, I will be here waiting for you to finally admit how you really feel. I will always love you, and there's nothing you can do to change that."

His heart wept at her words. There was too much blood on his hands, too many secrets that would break her. He could not betray her further than he already had.

He had to cool her ardor once and for all, if he was to keep her safe from him.

* * *

"I'm heading out to Laketown for personal business," Cumber said quietly as he threw a cloak over his shoulders. "Don't try to follow me."

"Of course not." You gave him your most innocent smile and waved at him cheerily as he strode down the mountain. You gave him about a 10 minute head start before you grabbed your own cloak and snuck after him. He always headed out to Laketown alone when he was off to buy dark artifacts or something excitingly dangerous and fascinating that he didn't want you knowing about.

You hopped onto your rowboat and made your way to the northeast dock as Cumber's boat disappeared towards the southeast. When you reached Laketown, you tied off your boat beneath a broken bridge, away from the watchful eyes of the patrol. With your dusty cloak wrapped about you, you blended in easily with the locals.

You darted through the narrow wooden walkways, past the fishermen and the net-menders until you were in the marketplace. Just as you timed it, Cumber was already making his way through the bustling crowd of street vendors. You followed after him with the stealth of a cat, carefully weaving past hollering housewives and screeching kids without being noticed. Down a dingy, crooked alleyway, the hunchbacked dealer from Mordor with his knapsack full of dark wonders stood waiting. His eyes gleamed greedily as he saw Cumber approaching. Cumber strode straight past him, without even a slight nod of greeting, and disappeared around the corner. You frowned as you hurried after him. No dark artifacts today. So what was he in Laketown for?

He stopped at the edge of town, where the washerwomen were busy boiling soiled laundry in giant, steaming vats by the murky water. The air smelled of ash and soap. As the washerwomen noticed his presence. He leaned casually against a faded wooden post and smoothly removed his hood. A half-smile played on his lips as he surveyed the women with a gaze that would make any woman weak in the knees. An old lady dropped her laundry basket, her face flushed and her mouth gaping. Several of the younger women giggled among themselves, pointing at him and waving shyly. He winked deliberately. Your hands were balled at your sides, anger rising like a firestorm. You've never seen him glance at another woman, let alone pretend to be charming to send the local women in a tittering frenzy. What had gotten into him?

A voluptuous beauty with fiery red hair stood up from tending the fire. She leaned forward and blew him a kiss, her ample chest spilling from the low neckline of her blouse. He grinned, white teeth flashing. He curled a black-gloved finger, bading her to come hither. And come she did, dropping the firewood and hitching her dress over her knees, scrambling over the piles of dirty linens and trousers to get to him. A dull silver band gleamed on her finger. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, gazing upon her as if she were a princess, and not a washerwoman stinking of smoke. He pulled her close and whispered in her ear. As he spoke, the woman began to blush, until she was as red as her hair. The woman gasped, and he smiled. Then they were off, arm in arm across a rickety bridge and down a corridor.

You were trembling, your fingernails digging into your palms. This couldn't be happening. This was Cumber. Your grumpy, moody Cumber. The man who only had eyes for you. You crouched behind a pile of old planks and watched them disappear into a wind-ravaged shack. You paced helplessly outside the door, wishing you had the courage and barge in and demand what was going on. There was a loud thump from the inside, and the whole shack shuddered. You quickly ducked to the side and peered through a shoddily boarded window.

The woman was half undressed, her red hair splayed like fire across milky white shoulders. Cumber's gloved hand was clasped around her throat, pressing her firmly against the wall. Her mouth was half-open, her breath ragged with delight as he made a patchwork of red and purple of her flesh with his teeth. She pawed at his clothes, and he shoved her hands away. With a sweep of his hand, he tore off the remnants of her dress and cast them aside. Her undergarments fell to her ankles and she kicked them away.

Your hands were clamped over your mouth, stifling the heartbreak that escaped from you in harsh, breathless sobs. He was yours. He belonged to you. Every part of his stupid self, his messy hair, his silly laugh, the funny lizard-looking bithnark under his right arm. You knew every crease on his face when he smiled, every fleck of color in his eyes. He was yours, yet he was giving himself to someone else.

Cumber stood in silence, watching the flustered redhead with an expression you could not read. For a second you dared to hope that he had a change of heart. Then he loosened his belt. Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them behind her back and grabbed a fistful of her hair in the other hand. He growled something low in her ear, and she answered with a throaty moan. With a hefty thrust, he sank into her like a hunter with a spear.

It was as if he had sank a dagger into your heart. The air abandoned your lungs. Despair wrapped its icy fingers around your soul and wrenched your insides apart. You wanted to race in there and drag him off her, wanted to claw and kick at him, screaming until you tasted blood. But all you could do was crouch paralyzed with your face pressed against the rough wooden boards, tears streaming down your face. All this time you were saving yourself for him, playing out scenario after scenario in your mind of how he would finally confess his love for you. How he would lay you gently in a meadow of flowers, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and teach you what it meant to be his.

Those dreams tasted like ash as you watched him betray you.

With every heave, the woman grunted and shoved back against him like a dog in heat. Cumber quickened his pace, his grip leaving prints on her wrists despite the gloves. You could watch no more. You slid down, your face buried in your hands. You wished the lake would rise up and wash you away, drown you in its icy embrace. At least then you would be numb to his betrayal.

You do not know when it fell silent, when it was finally over. You huddled in the shadows, unable to breathe, unable to move. He emerged from the shack, his hair and clothes in disarray.

"...Come," he said softly, not looking at you. "We must return to Erebor."

He knew. He had known all along that you had followed him here.

And he had made you watch.

A sickening chill shivered through you, and for the first time in your life you realized the hatred you were capable of. You drew your dagger in blind rage. The dagger had been his birthday gift to you so many years ago. He had been the one who taught you how to use it: How to defend, how to kill. With shaky hands you raised it, blood pounding in your skull. You were certain you would drive it into the heart of him. Maybe then he would truly feel what it was he had done to you.

The blade stopped inches from his chest. Even after what he had done, you could not bring yourself to hurt him. You loved him too much.

He clasped his hands over yours, and pressed the point of the dagger against his flesh.

"Is that what you want? My heart in exchange for breaking yours?" He stared unflinching with dead eyes. He pressed it harder until the point bit into his skin. A scarlet drop of blood blossomed around the silver blade. You flung the dagger away and threw a punch at him, your knuckle cracking harmlessly against his jaw. Tears streamed uncontrollably down your cheeks. He grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you, hard.

"...Save your tears, you stupid girl! How could you be so foolish?" He spat, his voice cracking slightly. "As if I would ever lose my heart to one such as you! A woman-child who cannot tell the difference between a lover and her surrogate!"

Then he shoved you away. He walked to his boat alone, his head bowed low and his shoulders trembling.


	12. Chapter 12- Spiders and Starlight

You rage against the darkness, fighting with the very fiber of your being as it drags you through the woods towards the oldest tree in the forest. Leaves and branches whip at your face; your arms are scratched and raw. But it is the guilt that eats away at you and leaves you cold and aching. The axe in your hand is blunt and unwieldy, the crude handiwork of orc. The darkness had you pry it from the carcass of a rotting spider, knowing that magic alone cannot pierce the ancient bark that houses what it desires above all else.

Its tendrils have taken root in your soul, festering and multiplying like a cancer. You are a sock puppet, and the darkness the hand that wields you. You must resist, must regain control over your limbs and break free before it forces you to do the unspeakable. It takes all your concentration to allow the axe to slip from your hands and clatter down into a gorge.

_Idiot,__ the darkness hisses,_ pricking the insides of your skull with needles. _Do you not know what lay waiting in these woods?_

The ar is filled with the clicking of venom-laced pincers and inhuman chittering. Glistening black orbs stare down at you hungrily. Spindly legs skitter and stab down at you. You yank out the knife at your belt, waving it menacingly at the encroaching horde of spiders. There is a sudden jab of excruciating pain in your back, and everything fades to black.

* * *

You wake encased in foul silk, dangling from a tree branch.

_I should have just let the spiders drain you dry, you miserable cretin. If I only I did not still need you alive._

Familiar footsteps rustle through damp leaves towards you. You hear an audible sigh. You heart skips a beat, then plummets as you realize that you're going to have to explain yourself. There was no where to run, no where to hide.

The king of Mirkwood prods you lightly with the hilt of his sword. Your mouth is sealed with spider silk; all you can manage is a muffled whimper.

"You run away in the dead of the night, slipping past my guards as if they were deaf and blind. You've shattered the enchantments and the wards of my woods with the ease of a hurricane. Yet you fall prey to spiders?"

He tears the silk from your face. His expression is hidden in shadow, but can sense the anger rolling off him like tidal wave. He pulls out his dagger and runs his finger along the blade, as if testing its sharpness. Then he draws the blade slowly down your body. A thin layer of spidersilk unravels, floating silently into the grass below.

"...I wasn't running away," you murmur guiltily, your heart beating wildly.

"And I am supposed to believe that?"

You bite your lip. If only the darkness would allow the truth. But all that it would allow were tears welling up in your eyes.

"...Please," you manage. "...I'm frightened."

His expression softens. He cups your chin leans in close.

"Promise that you will never run away from me again."

He suspects nothing. How can he suspect nothing? You stare at him with pleading eyes, wishing he would understand. But you see nothing but grim despair. You close your eyes and nod.

It is all you can do.

He sighs and pecks you gently on your lips. Then he peels the rest of the spider silk from your body, and you fall into the comfort and protection of his embrace. You wince as his hands graze your lower back. He stiffens and whips you around. His grip on you tightens when he sees the spider sting.

"-It's nothing," you begin, but he cuts you off with a piercing look.

He wrenches off his cloak and spreads it over the grass. The lining glows rust under the dull gleam of night.

"Lay down."

He kneels besides you and pulls out a crystal vial, raising it to the sky as if in offering. A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the woods, sending shivers through the blue grey grass. High above you the clouds part, exposing a sky alive with the brilliant shimmer of a million stars. The darkness within you stirs uneasily, quivering under the raw glare of cold light. You are filled with blinding fear as the darkness within shrinks away from the grating light. The skies glitter and swirl as he murmurs prayers in the celestial tongue of the High Elves. The vial becomes soaked in starlight; it glows like a tiny white lantern in his palm.

"The light of Earendil, our most beloved star. To draw out poison and close your wound."

He carefully pours the starlight onto your skin, drop by burning drop. It sinks into your flesh, piercing you like a thousand tiny icicles. Your nerves are seared with the cold fire of unforgiving light. He clamps his hand over your mouth as you scream.

"Must you wake all of Greenwood?" He mutters, pressing down on your back with his knee to dampen your flailing.

You groan through his fingers. His swallows hard and his grip over your mouth tightens. He dabs lightly at your wound and murmurs healing magic against your skin. The elvish falls upon you and crackles through you like a cleansing fire. Your body is a battleground, the darkness clinging to you like tar as starlight tears through the suffocating thickness. In the moment of blinding pain bathed in brilliance, your teeth close on the flesh of his palm. His breath catches in his throat.

"...You are not making it easy to concentrate," he grunts, his voice hoarse. You grip clumps of grass and dirt through his cloak, shuddering uncontrollably as the starlight overtakes you. You feel the darkness dissolve in the light and escape you with every laborious sigh.

"There. It is finished." He brushes the closed, tender skin where the starlight has healed you.

You have never felt so light, so wholesome. For the first time in what seems like forever, you are free. Gone is the weight on your soul, the sickening twist of darkness in your veins. The starlight has banished the evil from your being, and you feel yourself slowly revert to who you were before the darkness took hold. Emotions you kept bottled away burst forth in giddy affection.

The darkness has lost, and Mirkwood is finally safe.

You roll onto your back and beam at him. He looks at you, as if he is seeing who you truly are for the first time. His eyes are shining.

"...I have never seen you smile so. You are...radiant."

"I have never felt so happy," you breathe, drinking in the sight of him with pure, unadulterated love. He looks at you with desperate yearning, as if he has been waiting for this moment all his life. He pulls away from you, his eyes downcast. You catch his arm.

This moment is too beautiful, too precious to let slip away.

"...Will you make love to me?" You whisper.

He closes his eyes, as if in pain. "One must be in love to make love. You are drunk on starlight, filled with emotions as sweet and fleeting as the morning dew. When the sun rises the magic will fade. I will once again be nothing but your king and captor." He is longing. He is despair.

"Starlight is but starlight." You take his hand and press it against your pounding heart. "What I feel is my own."

Slowly you undress for him, your gaze never leaving his. You smooth your hands under his tunic and pull the heavy fabric from his broad, muscular shoulders. Then you pull him to you with the will of a woman who has finally regained herself, pressing your curves into the firmness of his flesh. His skin prickles under your touch and you can feel him falter. His pulse races, his breathing uneven. You kiss him, sweetly at first, but slowly deepening the kiss. A groan escapes his lips and his eyes glaze over.

"Please, Thranduil?" you whisper against him.

At once he is upon you, ravishing you with grim, pent-up frustration. His tongue is a flickering flame upon your senses, and you come alive with his every touch, every kiss. Love sings through your veins and flows from the depths of you in sighs and whimpers. There can be no more distance between you; you need him to feel your love resonate and envelop him, to complete him as he completes you. Your fingers graze low to find him soaked and rigid. He is trembling with need, his entire body wound tight like a spring. Yet he holds back. He cradles your face with shaky hands; there is uncertainty in his gaze. Wordlessly, he begs the truth of the light in your eyes, if it be of true emotion or starlight. He is lost, waiting to be found.

He chokes on his breath as you find him, wrapping your legs around his waist and guiding him to fulfillment. He is delicious, wholesome heat that stokes the very fire of your being. Your flesh is his, your pleasure is his. And he is yours. Every slick, thick thrust, every wretched, ragged breath. His lips grind against yours, the groans of his pleasure resonating in your mouth as it escapes from the depths of him. He is quaking now, his fingers digging into your flesh in desperate hunger.

Your consciousness weaves in and out in a symphony of delight. You are harmony in a hypnotic rhythm as ancient as the stars that shine down upon you. You are souls entwined, melting into one another like pools of light. You soar high towards an endless sea of stars, until you are showers of sparks and simmering light bursting and dancing through you. You are glitter and fire and ice, and he is the constant, the solid. The tangible friction that continues within. Without fail, without falter, sending you off into oblivion and back again for as long and as many times as he desires.

Your lips are at his ear, and you confess all of your love for him.

He utters a low sob. For the first time, he loses himself. The tremors of his release rock you to the core, and soul to soul you are gone and beyond. You are without words. Without thought. You are divinity soaked in starlight, wrapped in the embrace of the night and the steady, endless thrumming of him inside you.

"...If this is but a dream, then let morning never come," he whispers. Then he sweet and slow, demanding you become his again and again and again. Forever, until the end of time.

* * *

The light of dawn is upon you, scattering its rays through the leaves. He holds you so tight against him you can barely breathe. But the light is blinding, and the world about you rises from its slumber.

_Lovesick fool. Only darkness can cleanse darkness._

Icy fingers seize your heart. It had been within you all along, merely hiding from the starlight. You could feel it ooze through your being, its tendrils curling about your soul as if it never left. He sees the dark creep back into your eyes.

"I have etched you into my soul," he whispers hoarsely. "Do not be so soon lost to me!"

But you are gone, the darkness consuming you once again. You feel hollow. Empty.

It did not matter that your love had not diminished with the starlight. The darkness has decided to kill Thranduil, and make you watch.

To find out what happens next, please go to **Lemonconfessions dot Tumblr [slash] ebak **


	13. Chapter 13- Whispers of a Palantir

_Such sadness for one so young,_ it whispered in your mind. _I can feel your heartbreak through your fingertips._

You stared deep into Cumber's crystal, mesmerized. The beautiful, smoky sphere was perfectly smooth and warm to the touch. Sweet, hazy numbness tingled through your fingers and rolled through you like a shimmering mist. You welcomed it, letting it draw your pain from your heart like one would draw venom from a wound.

You had returned to Erebor utterly broken. Cumber never returned to Erebor at all. Night after night you curled up against his pillow and cried yourself to sleep, hating him with every beat of your aching heart, but loving him all the same. His covered crystal ball whispered to you from his shelf, offering you soothing words like mother calming an inconsolable child. It bade you to uncover it, so it could look at you, to share in your pain. Cumber had warned you not to touch the crystal ball. But he had abandoned you to tend the dragon alone, and you were desperately in need of a friend.

_I can teach you the secrets to the hearts of men. Give you the power to raise them high or crush them beneath your feet. Open your heart to me, and I will open your mind._

So you opened yourself to the darkness, feeding it your pain until what was left of your heartbreak was a soft pang of regret. You grew accustomed to its gentle sifting of your memories, to the flash of emotions and thoughts that were not your own. Under the influence of the darkness, you became older. Wiser. You knew things, dark, wondrous things; of enchantments and magic, of pleasure and pain. You tasted desire of a different sort, a lust for power so great and all-consuming not even love could stand in its way.

In your numbness you found somber understanding. Cumber did what he did because he was never yours to love, and he made it clear the only way you would listen. You could not find it in yourself to hate him, nor could you blame him for carving out the boundaries between you. All you wanted now was his safe return.

_Oh, he'll return. By the full moon, he will have no choice_.

The darkness was as cryptic as it was secretive, and it ignored you questions on how it was so certain. As the month neared its end and the night of the full moon drew near, it bade you to empty the barrels of wine deep in the cellar. You did not want to; you had never tempted the dragon's wrath before, and Cumber was not around to save you. The darkness tasted your anxiety and swallowed it, leaving you numb and subdued. You did as it asked, uncorking the barrels and letting the wine gush into the sewers until the barrels were dry. And when the dreaded night of the month finally came, when Smuag loomed over you with his tail curled around the jeweled goblet, demanding that you fill the cup with wine and drink until oblivion, all you could do was stand there in frozen terror. The darkness quickly took over and spoke on your behalf.

"Rats have gotten to the barrels and chewed through the wood," it/you lied smoothly. "We are out of wine. I could row to Laketown and buy more, and return in less than an hour."

You cowered behind a gold statue as Smaug roared and thumped its tail angrily. The dragon stormed about the treasure room in great agitation. Finally, it leaned down and glared at you.

"Go make yourself useful and find me some treasure. I tire of my collection."

You stare at your master blankly. "...But it is night! All the Laketown jewelers will be at home counting their gems-"

"-I don't care what time it is," it growled. "Get out of my mountain. I don't want you anywhere near Erebor tonight. I shall give you a night and a day to return with treasure. Should you fail to return by the next nightfall, I shall ignite your collar and reduce you to a pile ash."

The darkness forces down the hysteria building in your chest. Worry not. Let me take you to treasure that would make Smaug green with envy.

And so you rowed to Mirkwood under the light of the full moon with a knapsack on your back. The darkness lead you to a secret cavern heavily guarded by elite elven guards. You begged the darkness to reconsider, but it paid you no heed, your despair only feeding its strength. It forced you to climb up a tree as it summoned a horde of spiders to distract the guards. The guards sprung into action the moment they heard the ominous chittering, their silver blades drawn. As the spiders descended upon them, you slipped into the cave unnoticed.

What Smaug possessed in gold, Thranduil possessed in jewels. Millions upon millions of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires glittered and gleamed in elaborate displays throughout the winding corridors of the cavern. Gems of pure starlight illuminated your path with scattered rays of rainbow and white. You walked through glittering labyrinth, pilfering only the smallest, least precious of the gems. But even the smallest rubies crackled with flame, the dullest opals flashed like the secrets of the universe.

_You know nothing of treasure, child. Let me show you what is truly precious._

The darkness lead you deeper, until you found yourself in a hidden room with a tiny wooden box on a marble pedestal. Inside the box was a ring, a simple, sparkling emerald set in a carved wooden band. In the vague haze of memories that were not your own, you recognized the unfinished ring of power, the fourth elven ring secretly crafted by Celebrimbor.

The darkness hissed in disgust. The ring in the box was a fake.

_We must hurry; Thranduil has sensed an intruder. His guards have abandoned the spiders and are returning._

You raced out of the cavern, crashing blindly through the trees towards your rowboat. But the guards were swift and silent, and they cornered you before you had the chance to hide the knapsack. You were dragged kicking into the halls of the Mirkwood King.

No words could describe how you felt the moment your eyes met. Thranduil was cold and beautiful; it was as if you were in the presence of a demi-god. He gazed down at you as if nothing in the world mattered now that he knew of your existence. The feverish glint in his eyes was his desire to possess; he meant to have you, dragon be damned.

The darkness shrank back in disgust; this had not been in its plans.

You went to him willingly, surrendering to his hunger as tinder to fire. From his lips you found truth; from the grasp of his hands, the gasp of his breath, you found belonging. He was your first, and yet instinctively you knew him before he made you his own. You responded to him as if you had been his for centuries, and he responded to your touch with breathless confusion and delight. It was not in his nature to so consumed, but night after night he came for you, lost and ravenous. He would devour you, filling you and making you whole and perfect until you drifted off in exhaustion. When he thought you were asleep, he would gather you in his arms and hold you tenderly as he dared not while you were awake. He whispered to you his hopes, his fears, his struggle with the madness and hypocrisy that was his actions. And you loved him for it, although he could never know.

With each passing day, with each tender moment you shared with your king, the darkness within you writhed and seethed with vicious venom.

_In my name, you will reduce everything he loves into ash. And when I have drained his woods dry, I shall leave you to his wrath. He will free your head from your miserable shoulders and leave your carcass out for the vultures. And then he will forget you, because in truth you are nothing but a meaningless diversion to his pathetic life._

It poisoned your thoughts with fear and guilt, and grew strong on your torment. And after a night of starlight, it now roils with renewed bloodlust and hatred. It taunts you with images of carnage and destruction, promsing to massacre every elf in Mirkwood, saving their king for last. In darkness it will bind him, and make him watch as it makes you carve out his heart with a knife. And as the light fades from his eyes, it will make you whisper your love to him over and over and over again.

_You leave me no choice,_ it breathes as it relishes in your grief. _You should never have been captured at all. _


	14. Chapter 14- Melamin, My Love

Thranduil feels the axe slam into his side. The dull pain knocks the breath from his lungs and he staggers against his bookcase. Who dares put an axe to his tree, in his forest? Blind rage is quickly replaced by chilling suspicion.

It is not just any tree that groans under the gouge of the axe. This tree is dear to him. Precious. He had cast the ward over it himself.

There can only be one reason why someone would put an axe to the mother of all oaks in his forest.

Legolas runs breathless to the doorway, clutching his side. "Ada, did you feel that? What is happening?"

Thranduil makes no answer, his mind racing a mile a minute. It can not be.

"Sound the horns," he said calmly. "I want every Mirkwood elf withdrawn to my halls for protection. I will see to the disturbance myself. Do not, for any reason, come after me." 

* * *

The darkness wields the axe with your trembling hands and hacks at the tree mercilessly. The impact rattles through your frame with each deafening blow. The darkness is swollen and brimming with your misery; your struggle is nothing but a weak whine against the roar of its will.

_Death,_ it breathes with every shattering blow. _Death upon all._

The gash oozes gold with running sap. Gold, like the glint of firelight against his cobalt eyes, the color of his hair in the morning sun. Such beauty, even in its destruction.

Your king will bleed scarlet, like the berries he is fond of weaving into his crown. He will be just as lovely, with a dagger in his hand and a hole in his chest.

The darkness drops the axe and stretches your fingers into the seeping wound of the tree. You feel something icy in the warm stickiness and pry it out with your fingernails. The moment it comes loose, the tree shudders and creaks. It topples, smashing the trees in its path with an ear-splitting roar. It had been a good, wholesome tree, standing for eons in silent vigilance over its treasure. It had shielded the ring and its innocence from all corruption. Until now.

The ring is small, the emerald sparkling with the flicker of every leaf, every blade of grass of Middle Earth. It is set in mahogany, intricate wooden claws keeping the gem locked in place on carved foliate. It is just as beautiful as the darkness remembers it to be, humming with raw, untainted power. It is still young and unfinished, quivering delicately in its uncertainty of its full potential.

The darkness has waited for so long for this moment. It coos to the ring, whispering its influence like poison seeping into a well. It shares vision of conquest in the name of fire and iron, of total annihilation and the rebirth of a new world. The wood blackens as if burned, and the emerald gleams with a deeper, sinister hue. The ring is corrupted, and anxious to please its new master.

The darkness slips the ring over your finger, and it fits perfectly, as if it were carved just for you. In a sudden surge of power, the darkness envelops you like a shroud, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heartbeat slows, your eyes roll back. You feel yourself shrink away, sucked into a vortex of thoughts and emotions that are no longer your own. You spiral deeper and deeper, until you are but a shimmering speck lost in neverending night.

Ancient evil rises from the ashes of what you were and takes your place. Gone is the weepy human girl. You are darkness. You are power overwhelming. No longer a shadow fighting for dominion, you are living, breathing force with the power of life and death at your fingertips. You feel the thrum of life about you, the steady beating of hearts and chlorophyll and sap and blood rushing in and out of stems and veins in a million living creatures. The ring feels it too, and draws the vibrancy from all around you and infuses it into your flesh.

The trees shrivel and shriek, their branches straining against your will. Then they are dried, dead husks, their leaves falling in clumps of brown and black. Cold, lifeless creatures of fur and feather litter the barren wasteland at your feet. They stare unseeing at you in silent horror. Everything is quiet and still. You are dripping with power, electricity shimmering downs your limbs.

Today Mirkwood. Tomorrow Lothlórien. Then all of Middle Earth will fall.

"...What have you done?"

You whip around, and are face to face with the King of Mirkwood.

He is beautiful in his disbelief, thick lashes framing wide, wide eyes. A crease is carved between his eyebrows, his lips are thin white lines of anguish. He is shaking, every breath he draws like a dagger to his heart. You recall the sweetness of his lips against yours, the surrounding warmth of his embrace as promises were whispered between you under the witness of a million stars.

Forever, he breathed.

Foolish king. As if such promises could ever be kept.

"I knew you would come," you giggle. You trail your fingers suggestively down the cracked, withered bark of a nearby tree. It falls rotten under your caress. "You could never bear to be apart from me for long, Melamin."

He stares at you, his gaze piercing into your soul. His features harden as realization slowly sinks in. He knows just how deeply he has been betrayed, how blind he has been all this time. There is no how or why. Not when his woods have been laid to waste. His jaw is clenched, his gaze dark with bloodlust. His words are slow, his breath ragged and broken by grief.

"...Did the dragon put you up to this? Or is it that foul creature, Cumber?"

"The dragon and his half soul have long since turned from their One, true Master. They will soon learn to see things my way; I possess what they consider a treasure beyond all the riches of Erebor."

Thranduil flinches at your words. He is at loss, stripped of his most precious. Despair flickers behind hollow eyes. You have taken everything from him, and you will take much more.

"I have plans, Thranduil. Wondrous, wondrous plans of fire and decay. Surely you will join me in ushering the new Middle Earth, one paved with blood and bone." You reach out to touch him, and he swings his sword. The blade freezes a hair away from your bare, exposed neck.

"What's the matter, Melamin?" Your mouth stretches into a huge grin. "You do realize your hesitation will cost you?"

With a flick of your fingers, you hurl him against a tree. He smashes into the trunk with a sickening crack.

"Daro!"

The soldiers of Mirkwood have arrived, their arrows straining against taut bow strings.

"Not another step, human, if you value your life!"

The air crackles with dark electricity as you lift them all in the air with your power, slowly crushing their hearts from within their chests. Their screams feed your bloodlust as their lifeforce tingles up your arms and into your heart. You are wrapped in a haze of ecstasy in their deaths. With every sacrifice, you grow stronger, until you are omnipotent. No blade will cut you now, no ice nor fire will affect your being. The world is a haze of ash and dust. You no longer see the faces of the living, only the bright burn of life in their hearts.

A young elf leaps from the trees with his sword drawn. His heart beats with vengeance and vitality.

"How valiantly you defend your king," you breathe. "I shall ensure you a swift journey to the Hall of Mandos." You laugh. With a twist of your wrist, you draw a cloud of dark electricity. You will snuff out that light in his being, and consume it as your own. Before your spell can reach its mark, a brighter, deeper flame jumps in front of the younger elf, taking the brunt of the spell.

Thranduil glares at you with a hatred you did not ever think him capable. Then his eyes roll back, and he falls limp.

"Ada!" The elf screams, shaking his father. The young elf is Legolas. You pause, the need for death resonating within you, pounding with the force of a million drums.

A burst of light crackles through you like lightning. The girl within has re-emerged from the murky depths of the subconscious. She is screaming, clawing at you with renewed fervor. You have never felt such wrath, such determination like the one searing through you. She grabs your wrist and twists at your fingers. You wrench from her grasp, beating her down with your usual taunts and ridicule. Yet this time your words only enrage her more, feeding her disgust and hatred of you and giving force to her will. She snatches the ring from your finger and hurls it, far, far away.

"NO!"

Your power dissipates from you like bees from a beehive, the glow of a million lives you have stripped flowing into the air above you. You must reclaim the ring! You did not get so far only to be thwarted by a pathetic, useless girl you so easily dominated-

Legolas smashes his fist into the side of your head. And all goes dark. 

* * *

You wake chained in Thranduil's dungeon, your arms cuffed behind your back. The taste of starlight and vomit burns in your throat. The elves must have tried to force starlight upon you while you were unconscious. You snicker to yourself. As if starlight could drown out the shadows of Dol Guldur. You have no intention of releasing your host. For the briefest of moments, you had tasted victory. None stood in your way of ultimate dominion. Yet swithin a second she snatched your future away from you.

She will pay dearly for what she has done.

The dungeon door swings open. Thranduil enters, leaning heavily against his staff. The elf must have a hide that rivals dragonscale, to survive such a blast from you. You feel the rush of relief from the girl, and you crush it.

He has come to end you for your betrayal, you rasp silently. See how he carries his sword at his waist.

For the longest time, he stares at you without speaking. You can almost feel the shudder of his broken heart. Slowly, he holds out his hand. The charred ring lays in his palm, the emerald gleaming wantonly under the torchlight. You instinctively lunge for it, but your chains jerk you back. He closes his eyes, his expression stricken.

"You have slaughtered my men. Desecrated my woods. You have made a tomb of my Realm in your lust for power. The Silvan elves demand blood, as does my son."

"Then give it to them," you breathe. "Or shall you seem weak and useless in their eyes?"

He slams his fist into the dungeon wall. He grabs your face and brings it close to his. His hands are shaking.

"Is there no shred of remorse? All that we have built together, all that we have nurtured-" He chokes in mid-sentence, unable to contain his sorrow. He searches in vain for answers, yet only cold, familiar darkness stares back.

He releases you, and for the first time since you have known him, you see that he is defeated.

"If you will not dwell in our past, then neither shall I. Your fate is tied to ruin. I will not allow you to drag Mirkwood into further calamity."

He knocks his staff against the iron bars of the dungeon, and guards appear, holding a familiar gold circlet. It is Smaug's enchanted collar. The girl within shrinks back, cowering. She cannot return to Erebor. It is a fate crueler than death.

He takes the collar, running his fingers along the hefty metal, tracing the jagged black speech carved into the surface.

Please, the girl within cries. Don't you see it's not me? Please don't make me go back!

For a moment he hesitates, as if he hears the voiceless pleas of the girl. Then he reaches and snaps the collar around you. The weight is staggering, and you shudder at the familiar grip around your neck.

The girl utters a gut-wrenching cry, and is silent. Thranduil has abandoned her. She has been betrayed.

"I want you gone," he says coldly. Only his eyes betray his violent emotions. "There has never been, nor ever will be a place for you here." 


	15. Chapter 15-FB 8-The Sorcerer's Wager

Cumbersmaug was the runt of the litter, hovering between sleep and awake in the warmth of his jewel-encrusted egg while his brothers and sisters breathed little rings of flame playfully at each other. They had hatched weeks ago, hanging off their mother's long, slender neck excitedly while they waited for their baby brother to finally come out and play.

_Gold and silver await you, my little Cumbersmaug,_ his mother whispered lovingly in firesong, curling her tail about him. _A world of treasures await you in this wide, wide world._

His sisters tapped against his shell excitedly and rolled him about. His brothers chattered about the hidden tunnels in their cave, and how they'd go exploring once he came out. He was still too weak to smash through the crystal of his shell, so he rested and bided his time, waiting for the day he had enough strength to smash out into the world.

On the day he was finally ready, his mother affectionately nudging the egg and his siblings gathered around him, peeping excitedly, orcs broke into their nest.

He felt the earth shake as his mother blasted the orcs with flame, smashing army after army with her tail and claws. But the orcs swarmed in like fire ants, flinging nets and hooks and jagged chains over his mother and wrenching her down to the ground. He heard the gurgle of blood in her throat as they pierced her neck with long, black arrows, heard the shrieks of his siblings as they were chained down and muzzled. His mother watched her precious children strangled and dragged away, uttering a heart-wrenching sob before falling forever silent. Her last cry rattled through the shell of his egg and tore his soul in grief.

When the orcs hammered through the shell of his egg and cracked it open, they found him split in two.

Sauron wanted dragons for his army, and had no use for broken creatures. He was ready to crush them beneath his boot when his sorcerer scooped the trembling Cumber and Smaug from their broken egg and examined them with cool, detached interest. Anath had been handsome then, tall with a straight, square back, with sea green eyes and blond hair like the rest of his elven kin.

"I'll wager ya kin control this dragon without blinding it and breaking its mind. All ya need ta do is control its fleshy, human half."

Sauron raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And should the dragon prove to be too much trouble?"

Anath laughed. "Nonsense. Ya kin strip me of my titles and my magic, and I'll peddle knickknacks and dark trinklets instead of being yer sorcerer."

Amused, Sauron took the bet. Smaug was allowed to roam the barren wastelands of Mordor unchained and unmuzzled, while Cumber was kept on a tight leash, eating from his master's palm and sleeping curled beneath his master's bed. His siblings were blinded and dosed with poisoned powders until their wills were twisted and broken. They were reduced to mindless beasts whose sole purpose was to fly and breathe fire on command. Smaug tried numerous times to free them, but each time he was discovered, and Cumber savagely beaten. Smaug grew to resent his human half for his weakness and inaction, while Cumber resented his dragon half for his impulsiveness and poorly-planned escapes that would always result in being caught and brutally beaten.

His siblings did not last long under the cruelty of Sauron. One by one they wasted away, their emaciated bodies discarded in marsh pits like orc filth. He had nothing left in this world but the vengeance in his veins. Smaug became docile and obedient; Cumber continued his subservience with charm and wit. They would give their captors no reason to doubt them, lulling them into a false sense of security. They would bide their time and gain their strength. And when the dragon could stir the winds into a hurricane, and the boy could snap a cave troll's neck with a mere flick of his wrist, they would carry out their long-awaited vengeance of total annihilation.

As Cumber's tender child-form grew and hardened into the broad, sinuous body of man, Sauron saw in him more than just a means to control the dragon. Sauron followed him with eyes steeped with lust, and one night he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him down. Cumber dwelled on thoughts of fire and carnage, ravaging the world in his mind's eye as he learned the harrowing burn of desire at the hands of the one who murdered his loved ones. Under firm guidance, he became proficient in the carnal arts of pain and pleasure, inflicting and receiving as dictated by his master's whims. When his master brought others to join them, and Cumber would demonstrate, whether male or female, goblin, orc, or elf, what it meant to be thoroughly possessed by a dragon.

One night, after Sauron was spent and asleep, Cumber rose from the bed and calmly slit his master's throat from ear to ear. Then he stabbed him, again and again and again, until all that was left of his master was meaty grizzle and bone splattered across the silken mattress. Outside, Smaug incinerated everything that moved, trampling through the orc camps and flattening everything in his path. Mordor glowed red with blood and dragon flame. When everything was left in utter ruin, and not one living thing stirred in the flickering landscape, Cumber leapt from the tower and onto Smaug's back. They soared off into the night into unadulterated freedom, and never looked back.

_Gold and silver await you, my little Cumbersmaug. A world of treasures await you in this wide, wide world._

He carved a home in the ruins of Erebor, capturing his mother's love and firesong in the mountains of gold, rubies, and gems. He drowned himself in it, letting it envelop him in its glittering glory like the warmth of his jewel-encrusted egg. He slept for the first time in hundreds of years, and dreamt of the voice of his mother, and of his siblings tapping on his shell and asking him to come out and play.

When he woke, his knew that Sauron's death had not been enough to appease the hate coursing through his veins. He had seen what this wide world had to offer, and there was nothing but filth and greed. The world deserved to burn, and everyone in it. The beast flew off to ravage the land, cleansing it of wretchedness while the man watched the distant flame from his mountain. Only death could bring him peace, fill him with a numbing sense of satisfaction.

When the beast returned, he brought home with an unconscious girl. An orphan of his making.

"A pet to keep you company," Smaug purred, opening its claws and dropping her in his lap. "Her father offered her in servitude, before I ate him."

Something about the cold amusement in Smaug's eyes as he examined her reminded him of Anath that fateful day the wager with Sauron was made. In the years of captivity, the beast had become the very thing he hated the most.

Guilt and regret came too late. He could not bring back the lives he had so carelessly destroyed, return the child to the village he had reduced to rubble. So he did the only thing he could: He protected her from the dragon.

She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck with unconditional love and trust. Together their explored the many hidden passages of Erebor, ran through the meadows like wildebeests, lay against the rocky riverbank to watch the sun go down. She brought him flowers, little pebbles with streaks of quartz, empty snail shells and perfect acorns. These gifts became far more precious to him than the mountain of gold beneath the dragon's leathery hide. She filled his days with laughter and joy, and kept the demons of his past at bay.

He had not noticed when she became a woman. He was oblivious of the change in her scent, the swell of curves beneath her blouse. It was not until she kissed him one day, when he tasted desire on her soft, pink lips, that he realized she was a child no longer. Something deep within him stirred. Something dark, something he thought buried forever woke violently from its slumber.

He should never have let her kiss him.

Shadows of his past curled through him in hazy heat, and he remembered what it was to desire. He remembered the ways to tease the faintest embers from nothing, how to drag the flame out in simmering delight and push it into mindless inferno. Beauty and innocence rested in his hands, ripe and ready to be molded to the deepest of fantasies, the darkest of desires. The things he would show her, the cries and gasps he would draw from the very depths of her. The ways he would claim her, possessing her fully and utterly as only a master could possess his pet.

For the first time in his life, Cumber understood Sauron and the burn of his twisted hunger.

Cumber had become his master after all.

He told her not to follow him to Laketown, knowing full well she would. She was always headstrong like that, her will as untameable as her desire. He had to nip her emotions in the bud, crush them while he still could. For both their sakes.

As she rushed past the hunchback of Mordor after him, the hunchback whispered enchanted sleep in her ear and she dozed off, lashes fluttering. The gnarled creature caught her before she fell, and Cumber hurried back towards her.

"Pretty thing ya have here, dragon boy," the hunchback murmured as Cumber hurried back. "What I wouldn't give fer a just a little taste..."

Cumber ground his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "We go a long way back, Anath. Don't make me kill you."

"Like ya killed the Dark One? A mess ya made of him, that's fer sure. Too bad he didn't stay dead fer long. I sat on his throne fer barely a week before he came back. Ya know the first thing he said ta me? 'Ya lost the wager.' Stripped me of everything and cast me out. And now look at me. Ya know what it's like, feeling the magic slip from your bones? The slow descent from elf ta orc?"

"...All the other elves that followed Sauron perished when he lost the ring. Be thankful you survived."

"Aye. Thankful." The hunchback pulled out several murky glass vials and a stained eyedropper from his tattered knapsack. "Have ya concocted the phantasm?"

Cumber pulled out a dark green bottle from his pocket. The hunchback grabbed the bottle from him and uncorked it.

"Ah," he sniggered lasciviously, his eyes clouding over in the vision. "The scent of soap. A hint of ash and fire. The laughter of women echoing over the water..." Then he paused and frowned. "...Yer missing the key ingredient! Yer tart is missing a face. Thought I told ya ta get a hair from some woman whose image ya wanted in the vision."

"I'm sure you have a collection to spare. It really doesn't matter what the woman looks like."

The hunchback's silver eyes gleamed with sudden excitement. He rummaged through his knapsack and took out a metal box with a clumps of multi-colored hair. He untangled a single auburn strand and dropped it into the bottle.

"I hope ya like redheads. This one is exceptionally luscious. A real screamer."

The phantasm simmered with its final ingredient, and oozed from the bottle in brilliant red fog. The hunchback held it under her nose, letting her inhale the vision. He murmured dark spells that opened her mind to suggestion, coaxing her own imagination to fill in where the phantasm was incomplete. She gasped, and her eyes fell open, wide and unseeing as the phantasm took hold. Her eyes clouded in tears, and she choked back a sob.

"...Yer a strange one, dragon boy. Would've been easier fer ya ta just lay with a real girl an git caught. Unless that's not ever been yer cup of tea. Hard ta want anyone else, once when ya've been with the Dark One, eh?"

Cumber's hand shot out and closed over Anath's throat. For a moment they glared at each other, Anath and his twisted half-orc, half elf form, Cumber and his broken soul. How different their lives could have been, had their paths never crossed.

"...You're right. It is."

Cumber shoved the hunchback away and gathered the girl tenderly in his arms. He carried her from the alley to the very edge of town, laying her gently against a small boat house. Her eyes were swimming with vicious nightmares of lust and betrayal.

"No," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No, Cumber..."

He wanted to hold her, wanted to jerk her awake from from the visions in her head. But he hardened his heart and waited for the phantasm to take its course. This vicious cycle of bereavement and enslavement, of savage lust and deviance would end with him. When she woke, she would resent him. But she would never want him again, and that would keep her safe from what dark hunger within that threatened to consume everything he loved. He would keep his distance, let the pain and lust purge itself through time and reflection, and return to her only as the man who raised her. Things would go back to normal. And he would finally be free of Sauron and the scars left on his tattered soul.

**The next chapter, Til Death Do Us Part, is up on my Tumblr. If you don't want to wait for the update on FFN, feel free to check it out at LemonConfessions dot tumblr dot com slash ebak .  
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